


turned my collar to the wind // this is how it's always been

by CosmoKid



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Derek Hale is Good at Feelings, Derek Hale is Not a Failwolf, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Slash, Stiles Stilinski Has ADHD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:22:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28516365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmoKid/pseuds/CosmoKid
Summary: The first time it happens, or more accurately, the first time it happens when they’re a capital P Pack is on a Friday afternoon. He keeps the timing vague when he explains it later, but it was exactly 2:54 PM. The time is burned into his brain.--or 5 times Stiles grapples with RSD and 1 time he realises he doesn't have to do it alone
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski & The Pack
Comments: 20
Kudos: 223





	turned my collar to the wind // this is how it's always been

**Author's Note:**

> i started this during an rsd episode as a coping method and i found it in my wip folder tonight near finished so here we are
> 
> several of the rsd triggers are things that have triggered my rsd and oh my god its so dumb
> 
> title from all ive ever known from hadestown

1.  
The first time it happens, or more accurately, the first time it happens when they’re a capital P Pack is on a Friday afternoon. He keeps the timing vague when he explains it later, but it was exactly 2:54 PM. The time is burned into his brain.

They’re in economics and pretty much everyone in class is staring at the clock, waiting for it to tick over to three, Coach Finstock included. He handed out some worksheet that Stiles had finished within about ten minutes, giving him ample time to get so bored, he’d take another kanima incident over sitting there any longer.

It doesn’t take long for his brain to start screeching about how bored it is like a petulant child trying to clamber onto their parent’s lap while their overworked, overtired parent tries to fill out their taxes. His Mom used to pull him up onto her lap and bounce him until he’d stopped his clawing at her and calmed down, at least the best he could as a child who maxed out every hyperactive scale applied to him.

He’s not a toddler anymore though, nor is his Mom there to help calm him down, and it’s not like he can just ask Coach for extra stimulation. He’s enough of a pariah as is, he really doesn’t need to add more to his lack of social standing.

There are several other options for stimulation from other people, but Erica and Isaac are on the other side of the room, Scott is making puppy eyes at Allison, and Lydia is busy touching up her makeup with a compact mirror probably worth more than Stiles’ house.

And well, if he has no external stimulation, he can create his own. Or rather, his brain is going to create its own whether he’s onboard or not. He’s not. He’s very much not on board in any way.

That doesn’t stop his leg from bouncing though. He’d estimate his leg is bouncing around 65% of his life now that he’s had years of finding ways to counter it. He tries to stop it in school as much as he can, knowing that if he’s under a creaky desk, he’s going to annoy everyone around him.

As per usual, the leg bouncing comes with the pencil tapping or the pen clicking or the finger tapping, or all the above.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t take long for anyone to get frustrated with him. The first person is Greenberg who turns in his chair to glare at Stiles. And then the glares start coming and they really don’t stop coming his way, and Stiles knows why everyone wants him to stop. Stiles _wants_ himself to stop, but he can’t just stop doing it. That’s not how it works as much as he miserably wants it to.

Lydia is the one who verbalizes it, turning to level him with an icy glare. “How about you stop tapping your pencil before I decide to stab you with it?”

He swallows painfully, mouth dropping open to let out several apologies at once, but she’s already swiveled back to continue applying mascara.

It takes approximately maybe three nanoseconds for his stomach to drop. He lets go of his pencil, pushing it away from him as if it’s poisoned. He has to blink back the tears, gripping his desk as the familiar feelings of rejection and disappointment and worthlessness wash over him in waves.

He stares desperately at the door, needing to leave the room _now_. He needs to get out of this fucking room and get as far away as possible from everyone. From everyone who hates him and would rather he be dead.

It’d be better if he was if he just dropped dead and then no one would have to deal with him and his damn fucking incessant tapping again. God, he’s such an annoying person to be around; he doesn’t know how anybody deals with him.

Really, it would be better if he just fucked off forever. It’s not like anyone likes him, they all just pretend because they feel bad for him. He’s such a pathetic little-

_Stop,_ he thinks forcefully, trying to somehow expel the negative thoughts again, _This is just the RSD talking, this isn’t actually how anyone feels about you_.

But it is. For all intents and purposes, it is.

Whether or not it’s actually true is irrelevant, he can’t logic himself out of RSD. There’s no logic to RSD, there’s no logic to ADHD. It’s a whirlwind of pain and restlessness, a cyclone of wavering emotions. Highs and lows swinging around like a broken metronome.

The bell shakes him out of his head, and he’s the first to leave the room. He’s not sure the scrabbling to put his stuff away happened before he left the room, he’s in such a hurry.

He breaks every speed limit, probably including the speed of sound, as he drives home, locking himself away in his room as soon as possible. He turns his phone off, sets any kind of contact he can to mute, and prepares himself for a night of Wikipedia rabbit-holes. He _cannot_ deal with anyone else and he won’t.

No one really tries to contact him anyway, besides a cursory text from Erica about the newest Marvel movie trailer on Saturday evening, and the standard checking-in message from Derek on the Sunday. He might be a bit upset on any other weekend, but not then, not when he has the RSD gremlin to grapple with.

2.  
The second time, it’s a lot harder to just muscle through the initial stages and escape, what with it being in the middle of a pack meeting as it happens.

It’s for the dumbest reason as well. Normally, it's at least an unfavorable comment that sets it off, not just Isaac frowning in his general direction.

In his general fucking direction for God’s sake. He could maybe understand it if Isaac was looking at him or talking to him, or just doing anything besides looking a little bit maybe upset whilst facing in the general direction of where Stiles is sitting alongside both Erica and Boyd. Peter Hale is also behind them, leaning against a wall.

There is absolutely no way to tell that Isaac is angry with him or upset with him, but his brain has already decided that nope, Isaac hates him.

And well, if Isaac hates him, it follows that everyone else in the pack hates him too. It’s not like any of them actually enjoy having him around.

It’s an absurd conclusion based on barebones evidence wherein the bones turn out to just be paper mâché, but he can’t help feel that there has to be some truth to it. He’s not _useful_ like other pack members. He’s not a werewolf, he’s not a hunter, and he’s not both the anchor of a werewolf and some kind of supernatural creature.

He’d thought maybe he was a little special after the mountain-ash incident, but he hasn’t felt any kind of magic run through him since, and his “spark” hasn’t been needed.

_He hasn’t been needed._

No more than a boot needs an ant to stamp on anyhow.

Dragging a hand through his hair, he tries to stamp out the negative thoughts. He needs to get out of here before he starts crying or something equally humiliating. Or before someone else frowns in his _general fucking direction_ and he goes down the suicidal route again.

Not wanting to arouse suspicion (or annoy anyone further), he settles for asking his Dad to phone him, making some kind of excuse about having dropped his phone and wanting to check if the speaker still works.

It takes twenty minutes for his Dad to do so, all of which Stiles feels in agonizing detail. He doesn’t dare speak during it, knowing either nothing or tears will come out if he does so. He just sits there, trying to make as little sound as possible.

Ears perk up when his phone rings, eyes turning to him as he answers. He does his level best to keep his voice level before saying something along the lines of his Dad needing him home to talk about something.

For once, he’s glad Scott is too busy wrapped away in Allison because if he wasn’t, he’d know Stiles was bullshitting considering his Dad is working a triple shift and had mentioned it to Melissa over a dinner the two families had shared the day before.

But Scott is too busy making love eyes at Allison to care about Stiles and right now, that’s a fucking miracle.

3.  
The third is over text because of fucking course it is.

There’s a logical part of his brain that knows it’s incredibly difficult to deduce tone over text and that just because an emoji means one thing to him doesn’t mean it means the same to someone else, and then there’s the whole mess of how different they look between systems.

No one can expect to fully convey tone in its entirety over text, he knows that.

That doesn’t stop his brain from deciding Erica hates him because she replied “huh” with a thinking face emoji. There’s no reason for that to be read negatively, but fuck reason. RSD works solely on unwavering feelings.

And with the “Erica hates me” conclusion comes the flooding conclusion-hopping that everyone else has to hate him because he is annoying and he is frustrating to be around and he is useless. And if he’s useless, he’s worthless, and if he’s worthless, he really might as well be dead. It’d be so much easier for everyone if he was.

He swallows around a lump in his throat, locking his phone and sliding it into his pocket. Staring at the message chain is only going to make him feel worse, and with his brain this fired up, he’ll end up reading any notification as rejection. It’s safer if he just ignores it.

Anyway, he’s only got another five minutes or so before his Dad is finished with work and then they can have the unhealthy greasy dinner he’s been looking forward to all week.

4.  
The next is equally ludicrous, taking no actual communication from anyone for his brain to decide “lol, everyone hates you, better go take one of those kitchen knives and slit your throat”.

Though he supposes no communication may be a form of communication in of itself.

It’s the summer holidays and instead of spending it having fun, he’s spending it locked away in his room with mountain ash lining his house and his door firmly shut.

His friends not speaking to him for a couple of days shouldn’t be a cause for issue, especially with everyone besides Lydia and Derek in summer school.

But his RSD doesn’t care about logic or reason. All he needs is some perceived rejection and well, it’s somehow logical now that everyone hates him.

They don’t.

He knows they don’t because they’ve been getting closer as a pack over the summer.

They’ve had pack sleepovers and dinners, they’ve met up for lunch and he and Erica have dragged everyone to whatever nerd movie came out last. Isaac has taken him up on his offers for video game tournaments, Boyd turned out to also be a massive fan of Kathy Reichs’ books, and the four of them have even started a Minecraft server which is not something he ever saw happening. He and Lydia have been doing weekly maths challenges while Allison has been teaching him how to shoot a bow. Scott has finally let up and watched Star Wars and that marathon was inexplicably joined by Jackson who turns out to be a secret Star Wars nerd. Even Derek has shown up unannounced to hang out.

He doubts Derek would call it “hanging out”, but it’s hanging out. They’ve played card games, watched movies, and discussed the historical inaccuracies in BBC Merlin. They’ve spent time doing things that aren’t related to the monster of the week. They’re friends.

If everyone hated him like his brain wants him to believe, they wouldn’t bother with any of this.

His brain doesn’t care about that though, all it cares about is the perceived rejection.

He locks himself in his room for two days following it, trying to do anything besides thinking about the fact that he has every means to kill himself within the house, and well, the world wouldn’t be any worse off if he did.

No one shows up, mountain ash or not. He takes it as a blessing.

5.  
He’s bleeding pretty heavily the fifth time it happens, an unconscious hunter lying behind him.

Derek is glaring at him, eyes still red. Stiles shrinks backward, taking a step towards the hunter he’d so carelessly put himself in front of.

His logic was solid, he’ll maintain that. Putting himself in between a hunter and a werewolf is the safest option the pack has. If the hunter follows the code, they’re not going to hurt Stiles who is a weak defenseless human. They’re less likely to not hurt anyone else in the pack.

And his plan works. No one gets hurt and Allison has the chance to stick him with the tranquilizer dart. The only injury ends up being his own shoulder from when the hunter first gets tranqued and is panicking, haphazardly throwing a knife towards the wolves.

It’s all fine. No serious injuries, no maiming, no death. Everything turned out fine.

Or at least it does until words start leaving Derek’s mouth, words about how reckless it was and how much danger he put himself in, but all Stiles can hear is _I hate you, you’re such a burden, you’re dead weight, none of us want you here, we only let you hang out with us because we feel bad for you, you’re so worthless and pathetic, you’re nothing more than an urchin on the street begging for love, you’re weak, you’re useless, you’re nothing to me besides an annoying little boy-_.

The rejection overwhelms him for several moments before he finally gets a hold of anything, “I get it, okay? I get it, Derek, _I get it_. I’m going to go fuck off before I cause any more trouble.”

He doesn’t wait for a reaction before he pushes away from everyone, climbing into his truck and driving as far away as possible, blinking the tears away.

His phone is turned off before he’s in the house, everyone muted in every way possible. He connects the mountain ash lines on every entrance. He doesn’t bother turning any lights on besides the bathroom light where he stands under a scalding hot spray of water until he feels a little less unclean. He flips the light off once he’s in pajamas and makes his way to his room in slow, sluggish movements.

The way he crawls under his covers feels similar to when he’d crawl in his parent’s bed when there was a thunderstorm outside. He hugs his knees close to him and tries to not think about anything.

-

Unsurprisingly, the pack doesn’t really take well to the muting of all of them and the mountain ash barrier, and when he finally leaves his days-long cocoon of isolation, he gets all their protests at once. He gets lucky in the final text being “We’re all at the loft if you need to talk” from Derek and having only been sent twenty minutes before.

In the simplest terms, he doesn’t want to go.

He doesn’t want to leave his makeshift shelter; he doesn’t want to step out of the soft pillows and warm blankets into the biting cold of stares and questions; he doesn’t want to face the people he’s pushed away.

Like a candle in the wind, he’s flickering. In the most minute way, he’s still Stiles, the loudmouth overconfident nerd who never sits still and is always talking, but for the most part, he’s nothing. Where there was once a raging fire, there’s now only air, an empty space.

If he strips back the context of it until he’s left with the barebones of the situation, he faces a question that he doesn’t want to answer.

It’s one he _can_ answer, in intricate detail and intimacy. In theory, it’s a very easy question for him to answer, but theory doesn’t take into account the cyclone of emotion the past few days have wracked upon him. Like a ship on its last legs, thrown against the rocks over and over again until the wood is splintering and the brig is filling and there’s nothing left to do than to pay your respects and abandon ship.

And even that isn’t taking into account the fact that there’s no one in that loft who knows how he feels. They’ve been sad, sure; angry, of course; tired and exhausted, everyone has; at wit’s end, well, maybe, but for them, there was a logic to it. Maybe not sturdy logic, maybe so fragile he could break it with a tap, but there was _something_. There was some event that triggered it, something tangible.

There’s no logic to RSD; it’s a cruel, sadistic monster that acts on impulse, taking anything it wants and transforming it into your worst nightmare. It takes a soft pillow with a small stain and turns it into a void that suffocates you slowly; it takes a baguette that’s slightly underdone and turns it into a sword to stab you in the back with; it takes a smile and bends it until it’s the noose you’re hanging from.

How do you explain illogicality? How do you explain drowning to someone who’s still on the ship? How can he make them understand the why when they hear _can you be a bit quieter?_ as _ _ _can you be a bit quieter?___ and not you _ _ _should cut your tongue out so no one ever has to hear you speak again_?__

He has to try though. It’s not fair to anyone to leave them in the dark, especially not after what happened to trigger this cyclone. He was bleeding from his shoulder when he’d left. It was a flesh wound that was easy to patch up when he’d gotten some sense back, but it’s not like anyone knows that.

Walking in their shoes, they’ve been worried about him and the injury he sustained, and all he’s done is lock them out and leave them in mystery and confusion.

So he goes.

He gets changed into the cleanest clothes he has, grabs an apple from the kitchen to eat on the way, and gets into his truck. His knuckles are white around the wheel as stiff legs press down on the pedals, but he gets to the loft in one piece.

Werewolf hearing or not, he knows silence has fallen upon them all when he parks. There’s no chance of relaxing now, not with a flurry of tension following him up the stairs and into the open loft.

The silence breaks when he’s close enough for the pack to come into focus:

“Where the hell have you been, Stilinski?”

“Why haven’t you answered your phone, Stiles?”

“Do you know how worried we’ve all been for the past few days?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

It stops him dead in his tracks, the questions hitting him like a train. He swallows a painful noise down, ignoring the way it feels like he’s been punched in the gut. His eyes dart around the room, not wanting to land on anyone in particular as his throat dries up and an invisible hand tightens around his neck.

“ _Enough._ ”

Everyone turns to Derek as his voice booms out around the loft, almost echoing in the corners. His eyes aren’t red and his claws aren’t out, but the power he’s radiating is enough to feel like they have to be.

No one speaks.

“If you want Stiles to explain what’s happened over the past few days, you need to give him space to talk,” Derek says in a firm voice and Stiles feels the tiniest bit of tension leave his shoulders, “Bombarding him with questions isn’t helpful.”

“I’m sorry,” Isaac murmurs and Stiles’ heart clenches.

Derek’s voice softens, “You don’t have to apologize, Isaac, you didn’t ask anything.”

He stares at Derek as the fear dissipates; this isn’t the boy whose only control was holding onto anger that Stiles had first met. This isn’t the boy tripping on power to push down his grief. This isn’t the boy who used fear to get what he wanted.

This is the man who’d patiently explained the rules of poker to a confused Isaac and had lost graciously when Stiles has taken his king in their first chess game. This is the man who’d spoken about medieval sword making for ten minutes straight before realizing what he had done. This is the man who’d let Stiles ramble about the queer subtext in The Great Gatsby for half an hour.

This is his friend. This isn’t someone who is going to hurt him; this someone who will protect him, someone who crawled over broken glass to lead the danger away from Stiles.

“I’m the one who needs to apologize,” he says in a surprisingly steady voice, “I’m sorry for ignoring you all the past few days. I uh, it’s… it’s difficult to explain.”

No one speaks for several moments before Jackson says, “We’re waiting.”

“Jackson,” Derek scolds and Stiles knows he’s not the only one shocked. Derek turns his attention to Stiles, eyes warm, “You can sit down, Stiles. You’re always welcome here.”

He sits down the way the toys moved when Andy came into the room in Toy Story, so fast and inhuman he doesn’t remember it as he’s doing it. His leg is bouncing again and there’s no way he can stop it.

“I don’t really know where to start,” he admits in a quiet voice, keeping his gaze low to the floor, “It really is hard to explain if you don’t have ADHD.”

“ADHD?” Scott asks immediately and Stiles knows what will come next so well he’d be able to respond even if he hadn’t heard the words, “What could ADHD have to do with it? We’re not kids anymore, we’re nearly adults.”

He sighs, the weight of every other time he’s heard it heavy in it, “Contrary to popular belief, ADHD doesn’t go away when you’re an adult. There’s no magical turn off button when you hit your eighteenth birthday. I had ADHD when we were kids, I have ADHD now, and I’ll have ADHD ten years from now.”

“Even so, what does that have to do with you storming off like a child and electing to ignore all of us for days?” Lydia asks him in a prim and proper voice, “Attention dysregulation and hyperactivity doesn’t explain nor excuse your little temper tantrum.”

If this was his first rodeo, the words would cut like knives. Now, they’re more like gnats, annoying but not particularly painful.

“There’s a lot more to ADHD than attention dysregulation and hyperactivity,” he says and he doesn’t bother to cut the exhaustion out of his voice.

Before he can start the rehearsed speech explaining how dysfunctional he is as a human being, Derek speaks up, “And it isn’t Stiles’ job to teach you all about it. If he doesn’t want to do that, then you can go find someone who does.”

He blinks and then turns to give Derek a small smile before looking back at everyone, “There’s plenty of informative Tumblr blogs out there I can link you to, but uh yeah, what happened the past few days is due to ADHD. There’s uh, there’s a part of ADHD called Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria and it uh, it just… it’s like uh, like, you know when you leave a grocery store and they have those machine things on either side of the door that can tell if the barcodes on your items have been bought, and they set off an alarm when they detect something stolen. Imagine like your brain is those. RSD is basically if those machines detected a paid-for piece of cheese as a stolen diamond necklace and the alarms went off full speed and the police have been called and now some poor old lady who wanted to make a cheesecake for her grandson’s graduation party is now in a holding cell because the machine fucked up.”

Everyone stares at him, looking none the wiser after his explanation. He sighs, “Just, you know, how uh, how after Ally took down the hunter, Derek lectured me about how reckless what I did was? For everyone else, that registered as a lecture about how reckless it was, but there’s a little gremlin in my brain that’s always trying to find evidence that I’ve been rejected in some way and the gremlin just latched onto those words and all I could hear was how I was worthless and a burden and an awful person and how no one actually liked me and it just, it got to the point where I had to leave and I had to cut you all off because if I didn’t, there’s a chance my brain would have read any other interaction as evidence that you hated me and well, there’s only so far you can spiral in depressive thoughts before you do something you can’t take back.”

“But why would you ever think we hate you?” Erica asks him after a beat and the hurt in her voice is loud and clear, “I thought we were meant to be friends.”

“We are friends,” he says and whatever confidence he’d managed to muster up is gone by now, “But RSD has a way of warping everything and uh preying on any uh any insecurity. Logically, I know you don’t hate me, but there’s no logic to RSD. The barista at Starbucks could sound tired while calling my name out and RSD could latch onto it and convince me that everyone hates me because of it.”

Her frown deepens, “That doesn’t make sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he agrees, feeling tears well up in his eyes, “There’s no sense to anything with ADHD. It’s like you’re possessed but by yourself and you’re constantly fighting yourself to function. It fucking sucks.”

Scott speaks up next, making Stiles realize just how much he regrets never having explained any of it to him before, “But if you know that it’s illogical and you know we don’t hate you, why do you still believe it?”

“You can’t logic yourself out of ADHD,” Derek says before Stiles can reply, taking away a lot of the tension in his shoulders. “It’s a neurodevelopmental disorder, you can’t just turn off symptoms by thinking logically, same as you can’t turn off symptoms by trying harder to focus. That’s just not how it works.”

He turns to Derek, words failing him as he looks at the older man. He understands, he gets it. He’s on Stiles’ side. He’s not trying to solve ADHD with yoga or meditation.

If he wasn’t speechless, he’d be saying thank you in every language known to man, and oh is that a depressing thought: the fact that he’s so used to people not trying that he wants to thank someone for showing him basic human decency.

“Exactly,” he manages as he turns back to everyone else. “I’m sorry for ignoring you all, I really am, but that’s what was best for me and my mental health. And it will happen again and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it. It’s happened several times over the summer already. I can try to give you a heads up so you don’t worry, but that’s all I can do. I, yeah.”

“Any questions?” Derek asks, leaving less than a second before saying, “Okay, good. I think it’s Erica’s turn to pick a movie and Jackson’s turn to get the food.”

There must be something in Derek’s tone because as soon as he says it, it’s like a switch is flipped. Suddenly, Isaac and Scott are trying to convince Erica to choose a specific movie and Jackson is passing a notebook and menu around so everyone can write down what they want for the Chinese takeaway a few blocks over. It’s like nothing happened.

Taking a deep breath and a chance, he moves over so he’s sat next to Derek on the other side of the L-shaped sofa Lydia picked out. Derek greets him with a nod and warm eyes.

“Thank you for understanding,” he says in a soft voice, holding his hand up before Derek can speak, “It made that a whole lot easier to do. It’s so hard to explain ADHD to anyone, let alone RSD. I was dreading it so bad, but it really wasn’t that bad. People don’t normally, you know, uh, understand it so quick or even bother trying to understand it.”

Derek picks up on the silent question, “My little sister, Cora, had it. Mom made sure we were all as understanding and knowledgeable as possible.”

He takes the risk in putting a comforting hand on Derek’s arm, “Your Mom was a good Mom.”

“She was,” Derek agrees and Stiles is so focussed on the flicks of green in Derek’s eyes, he almost misses how close they’re sitting. “You’re part of this pack, Stiles, and that means we need to be there for you when you need help.”

He swallows, intimately aware that Derek can hear how his heart is jack-rabbiting in his chest.

He doesn’t get the chance to reply though, instead, their heads both turn when Erica decrees, “We’re watching Jennifer’s Body. It’s my turn to pick and I pick Jennifer’s Body.”

“It’s a good pick,” he says before he can stop himself because really, he can never really stop himself. He has ADHD.

Erica grins brightly at him, “My picks are always good picks.”

“Fuck off,” Isaac bites back in a teasing tone, “Cry_Wolf was awful, even if Bon Jovi was in it.”

“He got shot through the heart, Isaac!” Erica exclaims, throwing her hands in the air, “What else do you want?”

Isaac deadpans, “An interesting narrative and well-written characters.”

Stiles snorts, watching their bickering in amusement. Derek still hasn’t pulled his arm away and it’s warm under his hand, as warm as the soft feeling in his chest as he sits there. It feels safe and warm and for the first time in his life, he doesn’t feel like he needs to cut off his edges to fit into the jigsaw.

His piece fits neatly next to Derek and he’s all too content to stay there.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3
> 
> come scream with me on [tumblr](https://listen-to-the-inner-walrus.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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